


Daddy Issues

by UnCon



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man: Far From Home
Genre: But it's a small plot, Canon Divergent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time, M/M, Manipulative Behavior, Mentions of M.J., Mentions of Tony Stark, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker is 18, Porn With Plot, There's a bit of age difference, but I made Peter an adult so it wouldn't be too off-putting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-07 18:48:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19475170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnCon/pseuds/UnCon
Summary: ****SPOILERS FOR SPIDER-MAN: FAR FROM HOME****During the post-battle celebratory drink, Peter is conflicted about handing over Mr. Stark's gift to Mysterio. His hesitation prompts Mysterio to find another way to obtain the glasses from him.





	Daddy Issues

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, what a terrible summary!
> 
> Hello! Though I'm no stranger to the Avengers universe or writing fan-fiction, this is my first addition to the Spider-Man fandom. Now, I'm a HUGE spideypool fan, but until Deadpool is seen swinging around with our favourite friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man in the MCU, I decided to dip my feet into this ship while it's still on the docks. I watched the movie and immediately had to write this. It's a bit long, and I'm responsible for any errors you see.  
> I aged up Spider-Man because, A, it makes more sense, and B, keeps this from straddling a controversial line. 
> 
> Regardless, please enjoy and let me know what you think!
> 
> Also FINAL SPOILER ALERT!
> 
> [Title taken from Daddy Issues by The Neighbourhood]

It was done. They’d defeated the last of the Elementals and the world was safe. But Peter’s mind couldn’t focus on their immediate victory, he instead rushed towards Mr. Beck—sorry— _Mysterio_ , and turned him over, releasing a sigh of relief when he found him breathing. Peter didn’t want to imagine accommodating another loss, not so soon anyway. He helped Mysterio stand, dusting off his cape and metal armour. Even through the dust, he could see his smile, the pride beaming from it. It made Peter happy to have another person not only understand him but share with him this experience.

“Come on, we need a drink,” Mysterio said with a calm urgency, almost as if he were giving Peter an ultimatum. He could either go or stay, refuse or accept. Either way, Mysterio was going with or without him.

“But I’m not twenty-one,” was Peter’s tentative reply, an excuse for sure, but it was the only one he made as he doubled his stride to catch up to the hero.

They entered a convenient little hole-in-the-wall, open and functional despite the chaos that’d ensued minutes ago. Peter, a worrywart and stickler for a select few rules, ordered a lemonade while he watched Mysterio down his third scotch. It drove a familiar feeling through his stomach, one that made his insides twist into small knots. It wasn’t as if the similarities weren’t slapping him over the head when they made eye contact. Even his beard was similar.

Peter distracted himself, and his unhealthy train of thought, by slurping his straw, feeling every bit the kid he pretended to be. He tuned into Mysterio’s question, his hands prickling with sweat as he thought about it.

_What does Peter Parker want now?_

Of course, the answer was obvious. He wanted to take M.J. to Paris, stand at the top of the Eifel Tower, and confess. You know, the Big Plan. He said as much, feeling awkward admitting such a desire to someone who, for all intents and purposes, was still a stranger.

“But you won’t, will you?” It was a harsh rebuttal, one that put into perspective just how disconnected Peter’s life was from everyone else’s. He could pretend not to be Spider-Man just as much as he could try not to breathe. Answer: not very long. So, no, he wouldn’t be going to France, he wouldn’t be confessing to M.J., and hell, he might break the dammed necklace before he even got a chance to take it out of the box.

With great power came great responsibility, but no one told him it’d interfere with his love life.

Put-off, and most definitely not in the mood to wallow in his self-pity, he hadn’t noticed the lightening of his pockets or even heard the tell-tale _clink_ of Mr. Stark’s glasses taking a tumble, until one of the waiters picked it up for him.

Mysterio reprimanded him, but not spitefully, urging him instead to try them on. He could tell the man was having doubts about his insistence, his lips quirking as he tried to let Peter down gently.

“I actually like them,” Peter defended, adjusting the tinted shades on his face.

“May I be completely honest, Peter?” Mysterio asked, still trying to be kind. Peter could see it, in how his eyes softened and he leaned in, almost as if to take the glasses but thought better of it. Yes, Peter wanted him to be honest, it was all he ever asked from a person. “I don’t think they suit you.”

“I-I know,” he sounded defeated, even to himself. He removed them, rubbing his eyes from the sting of rejection. They were big shoes to fill, there was no denying it, and to have his fears confirmed did nothing for his deteriorating self-image. He needed Mr. Stark, missed him more with every passing day. But even as they lived in a world where Gods played videogames and raccoons could talk, there was no bringing people back from the dead. Besides, if anyone could invent the technology, it’d _be_ Mr. Stark.

Mysterio’s hand made its way to Peter’s shoulder, squeezing it lightly. The young Avenger looked up—his eyes shiny with unshed tears. He appreciated the warm gesture, unsure when he’d receive another from a would-be paternal figure. He tried to be subtle as he pressed into the heat, hid his blush by sipping the remnants of his lemonade. Mysterio ordered another one as Peter twirled his glasses, deciding what to do with them.

“Why don’t you try them on?” the teen asked with wide-eyed enthusiasm. It’d be an out, and God knew he was desperate for an out. He thanked the lady serving him his second glass, downing half of it as he pushed the spectacles in the hero’s direction.

“What?” Mysterio asked, his face twisting with amused confusion, “I couldn’t, _what_?” It was endearing watching him struggle to comprehend Peter’s request. But the younger insisted, his anticipation forcing him to disregard the warning signs, to ignore the slight tingling of his Spider-Sense ( _Not_ Peter’s Tingles, Aunt May) as he placed his trust in Quentin Beck. It would’ve done him some good to listen to his instincts, it might have saved him a few broken ribs and a long detour through the Netherlands.

But hindsight was 20/20, and he’d been dust particles when Tony Stark created the time machine.

“Alright,” Mysterio said, giving up somewhat reluctantly. He took the specs and put them on, posing clumsily as he tried to accommodate the foreign weight on his face. Peter’s heart thudded hard in his throat as he looked past the immediate here and now and focused on how well they fit Mysterio. It didn’t hurt that the man was older, that his age and experience warranted such expensive glasses.

The revelation that _this_ was the correct choice came to Peter in stages. The first was when Mysterio smirked, a pantomime for sure, but it was close enough that he didn’t notice (or didn’t care to). The second was during the hand-off when the man’s fingers brushed against his own in a caress that shouldn’t have been as intimate as it’d felt. And the third was when the words were already leaving his mouth, explaining how _this_ is what Tony meant when he’d given him the glasses, that he had to choose someone who was worthy to wield such power, that Peter wasn’t ready to take on the world, but a proven hero like Mysterio was more than capable. It was only a shame that EDITH didn’t come equipped with ‘worthy sensing’ powers like Mjolnir.

“Wait, Peter, how many lemonades did you drink?” Mysterio asked, stilling the teen's hands, “this is insane. I’m sure Mr. Stark meant for _you_ to have these, why else would he give them to you?”

“But that’s the thing!” Peter exclaimed, nearly jumping out of his seat from selfish relief. And yes, some part of him had to admit that this _was_ selfish, but the world would be better without him, he _had_ to believe that because if not, the guilt would crush him. “What if the reason he gave them to me was so that I could find someone like you?”

“This is insane,” Mysterio repeated, searching Peter’s eyes for any misgivings about his character.

“I trust you.”

It was true—he did.

“Edith,” Peter began with a self-assured smile, “transfer all control to Quentin Beck.” There was a pause before the AI replied, like a thought before a major decision.

“Peter, don’t—”

“This decision requires a confirmation,” said the robotic voice.

“Peter—”

In a moment there’d be no more quarrels over who, what, when, where, and why. He’d leave Prague, fly to France, and finish his trip by confessing to M.J. It was perfect, the only thing left to do was confirm and it’d be done!

…

Peter hesitated, looking at the last remnant of Mr. Stark’s consideration for him, the words trapped on his tongue. Even his name had been engraved in the golden frame, making him the owner despite his speedy decision to discard it. He looked at Mysterio, an apology in his eyes as he left the hero expectant. It was indeed a lot of power to hand to someone, especially so rashly.

“You’re having doubts,” Mysterio said, a slight edge to his voice. He’d wanted to snatch the glasses out of Peter’s hands, they were nearly his now, it’d be well within his right. But that would set off more than a few alarm bells and the last thing he needed was to clue the spiderling in on his little façade.

“No, no,” Peter reassured, still finding it hard to let go, “sorry, it’s just…I need a few more seconds. Sorry, again.”

“You don’t ever have to apologize to me,” Mysterio said, taking the liberty of running a few fingers through the teen’s hair, fixing the messy cowlick, “I understand completely. Loss, it’s something we humans aren’t equipped to deal with, so please, take as much time as you need.”

Peter let go of his breath, relief flooding his veins at the simple kindness. Yes, he kept forgetting Mysterio had also suffered a tremendous tragedy, an entire planet gone, burned to nothing. Despite its morbid nature, he enjoyed having these many things in common, it made talking to the hero easier, it made them more equal. Mr. Stark had always seemed grander than life, _Even Dead I’m The Hero,_ he’d written, and Spider-Man couldn’t agree more _._ But Mysterio had offered him a drink, had encouraged him to be proud of his intelligence instead of outsmarting him. He knew it sounded like he resented Mr. Stark, and that was far from it, even so, Tony had been unreachable. Peter was starting to realize he rather liked being able to reach his heroes.

“You need to rest Peter, it’s been a long day, for both of us.” Mysterio stood, paying the tab. He looked disappointed though Peter could only guess why. “It’ll be an even longer day tomorrow.”

“Wait, do you have a place to stay? I mean, I’m sure you do, but like nearby, there’s probably a way to get an extra room at the hotel, I’d hate to inconvenience you, Mr. Beck, I mean, Mysterio—”

“Peter,” the older man interrupted, a wry smile growing on his face, “after hours it’s just Quentin.”

“Of course, Mr. Quentin.”

Mysterio chuckled, ruffling the younger’s hair. He seemed to enjoy touching him, and Peter wasn’t opposed to it, in fact, he appreciated the attention. It’d be less awkward if neither of them acknowledged just how much. He was finding it hard not to ask for more as it were.

“If you’re not opposed to it, I’d like to go somewhere more private, let you talk about your daddy issues in peace,” Quentin teased, giving Peter a playful shove.

The spiderling reddened immediately, feeling his new suit constrict under the sudden jump in his pulse. Was he that obvious?

“No, not at all,” Peter replied, his voice squeaky and strained as he thrust it through the lump in his throat.

“Perfect.” Mysterio patted down his armour, looking through his pockets, retrieving a pen, and a piece of torn paper, “Meet me here,” he said, jotting down the room number. “And dress normally, there’s no longer a need for formalities between us, you’ve already proven yourself more than capable.”

Peter nodded, speechless, the lump in throat now a boulder threatening to choke him with its weight. He rushed through the emptied streets, dodging stray streamers and escaped balloons as he snuck into his room to shower and dress. He thought twice about dumping the whole bottle of cologne over his head or forgoing it. Even as he combed his hair, he still hadn’t decided, unsure why it mattered in the first place.

He pushed through the nervousness as he tried to multitask, jumping on one leg as he shoved his foot into his shoes, brushing his teeth and cursing as the toothpaste splattered on his shirt. Preoccupied as he was, he didn’t notice Ned watching him with friendly curiosity, cocking his head when Peter removed his shirt with a toothbrush still in his mouth.

“You gonna’ go meet M.J.?” Peter’s first response was to scream, half-stuck in his shirt as he whirled towards the sound. “You okay, dude?” Ned laughed, helping Peter out of his bind.

“No, I mean yes, I mean—Peter paused, taking a deep breath to clear his mind—no to your first question, yes to your second.”

Ned looked confused, openly ogling his friend’s choice of dress: black slacks with a blue-now-changed-to-white button-up blouse. “Then what’s with the get-up? You already saved the world, what else does Fury want?” Ned asked, shaking his head, “honestly, Pete, you deserve a break.” He placed a hand on Peter’s shoulder, gratitude and friendship floating through his eyes. 

“I-I know, and I-I’ll get one, as soon I’m done with this one last thing,” Peter said, his fingers daft as they buttoned his shirt, “promise,” he insisted, washing out his mouth and returning the toothbrush. He spun on his heel, presenting himself to his friend, “How do I look?” he asked, flashing an awkwardly charming smile.

“Like you’re going to church,” Ned admitted after another look-over, “where _are_ you going?”

“It’s just a small errand, won’t take more than a second,” the spiderling said, trying to convince himself and his nerves that it’d be as simple as that. “Don’t worry about it.” Peter looked away, walking towards his suitcase and digging through it, looking for the glasses’ carrying case. His hands trembled as he held it, doubt colouring every decision he’d made since Mr. Stark’s death. He had to be sure this was right, it _felt_ right, but he’d been wrong before.

“Peter.” Ned pulled him out of his reverie, a concerned tone coupled with a worried face greeted the young hero when he turned to face him. “You alright, man?”

“Yeah,” the word sounded like a scratchy lie, so Peter cleared his throat, and tried again, “of course.” He shoved his qualms to the side and put the glasses in their case, snapping it shut with some semblance of finality. 

“Just be careful,” Ned cautioned, taking a step backwards.

Peter appreciated the concern, giving Ned a sideways hug before he left, telling him not to wait up. He clutched the case in one hand and Mysterio’s room number in the other, his steps quickening as he ascended the stairs two at a time. He thought about web-slinging to the penthouse but was deterred when an employee opened the corridor doors. He ducked out of the way, keeping himself as inconspicuous as possible.

Finally, at Mysterio’s door, Peter found himself hesitating to knock. Should he have brought something to eat? Drink? Was it customary to bring gifts after battles? He didn’t have enough experience with these things, he hoped the glasses would suffice. His rap on the door embodied his nerves, jerky with an undercurrent of urgency. He felt as if he were carrying a grenade, and in retrospect, he wasn’t far off. He needed to be rid of it, to let the professionals handle it.

Peter waited for longer than he anticipated, he almost knocked again had it not been for the quiet rustling of someone on the other side. Dammit, what time was it? Peter checked his watch, feeling guilt curdle in his stomach. It was only a little past one, but even heroes needed their sleep. Nevertheless, Mysterio had asked him to meet him. Tonight. _Not_ showing up would have been just as rude.

“Glad to see you made it in one piece,” Quentin greeted, opening the large door into the lavish space of upscale living, “I almost thought you wouldn’t show,” he commented with his usual half-smile. He was still in his superhero outfit, looking a bit out of place in the human suite.

“Sorry, Mr. Beck, I didn’t mean to take so long, I just had to take a shower and—”

“There you go, apologizing again,” the older man chastised jokily, his smile growing warmer.

“…Sorry.”

Quentin’s eyes narrowed, rubbing his chin as if he were thinking. “You know what I think you need,” he began, ushering them into the living room, “a day off.” It was a gilded palace, to put it mildly, the waterfall in the corner made a pleasant background noise, the marble floors reflected the cozy lights, giving the entire space an ethereal feel. Peter wasn’t used to such luxury, felt like an unsightly stain in these circumstances. He flinched, looking around for the nearest exit should the occasion call for it. 

“Here, sit,” the hero ordered, gentle as he pushed Peter into the couch, “and try to relax, I’ll be right back.”

Peter nodded, taking as little space on the couch as was physically possible. Mysterio’s absence gave him a moment to look around unabashedly, he could feel his face grow more surprised with each new trinket. After a few minutes and still, no sign of the man, Peter’s natural curiosity won out, and he stood, touching items that probably cost more than his entire classes’ European trip. Combined.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, furrowing his brows at his choice of clothing. Ned was right, he looked like he should be leading a bible study group. He adjusted his collar, undoing a few buttons of his shirt and loosening his locks from their styled comb-over. Quentin had said casual, so he was doing casual.

Hopefully not _too_ casual, he didn’t want to seem like an uncultured cretin.

“I hope you like ice cream,” Quentin said, startling Peter, “oh, are you alright?” he asked, putting down the fancy dishes of gourmet dessert, far too decorative to be called ‘ice cream.’

“Yeah, I just…I didn’t hear you coming,” Peter said, looking put-off by the fact. He shook his head, replacing his worry with a smile, turning his eyes to the treat, then to the man offering it. Quentin had showered and trimmed his beard, the woodsy smell of his aftershave floating between them like a ribbon through the wind. Peter found himself breathing it in, leaning a bit closer to get a better idea of what else he was scenting. The man had also changed, now donning a maroon button-down and black slacks with matching loafers.

“I like ice cream,” Peter said after too long of a beat. His cheeks were hot, and he feared to think of why. Quentin chuckled, separating two spoons and placing them in each dish, handing one to Peter. The teen took it, juggling the glass with the case, nearly dropping both. Quentin quietened his hands, delicate as he removed the carrying case from Peter’s fingers, placing it within reach on the table.

“Relax, they’ll be there when you’re done,” Quentin promised, leading them once more to the sofa. He sat close to Peter, unbothered by the sizeable space they’ve yet to occupy. He used a voice command to turn on the television and slowly let his body melt into the cushions as he enjoyed his treat. “Not the healthiest of options after a battle, but it’s nonetheless well deserved.”

Peter hummed in agreement, forcing himself to slow down as he consumed the dairy product. He never realized how famished he was until he had a moment to eat, and knowing his life, such a simple pleasure could easily be interrupted. He sent a silent prayer to whoever would listen that the evils of the world would let him rest, at least for a few more minutes.

“So, do you think about him often?” Quentin asked, his eyes focused on the television.

“What?” It was such an inelegant word, but Peter’s mind drew a blank at trying to conjure anything else.

“Tony Stark.”

Just hearing his name brought a slew of demons knocking on Peter’s psyche. He cleared his throat, feeling the sting in his eyes come hot and fast. He didn’t want to cry, not in front of someone like Quentin. “I—” His neck constricted, letting nothing escape, not even sound.

“Hey, I shouldn’t have asked,” the other murmured, weaving a consoling arm around the grieving boy. “It was a rhetorical question anyway.” Peter huffed a chuckle, allowing the coddling. He buried his head in the crook of Quentin’s neck, letting his breaths deepen and the time between them lengthen as he calmed down.

 _Pine_ , he thought, _with a hint of cedarwood._

Quentin rubbed small circles into Peter’s shoulder, taking a few liberties with how far he was willing to let his hand wander across the expanse of his back. He only paused when Peter shifted closer, a minute shiver running through him. He could feel the muscles contract under his touch, let a breath of surprise pass through his eyes at how taught they were. Quentin knew the kid to be capable, damn, he’d seen him keep a building from collapsing on itself. Despite this, he still felt so vulnerable, lying here like a lost pup in need of shelter.

Another victim of Stark’s abandonment.

“I’m sorry,” Peter murmured, pulling away, wishing to fling himself out of the window from mortification, “and I’m sorry for apologizing so much.” He wrung his hands, his eyes holding a familiar sheen in them.

“I’m not sure what the problem is now,” Quentin said, remaining where the spiderling left him. “It’s just us, there’s no Fury, no impending doom, not even a class assignment to worry about, Peter. If you need to let something out, I promise I won’t tell anyone else.” And this was one of the few promises Quentin would keep.

Peter let go of a shaky breath, his hands trembling as he ran his fingers through his hair. “I’m still not sure about anything,” he admitted, feeling a weight lift off his shoulders, “I know what’s right in my heart, but I’m afraid of following through.”

Quentin’s expression was open and understanding, his brows knitting together to create a look of concern, straying away from seeming too pitying. “You should sit back down.” He touched the space next to him, still warm from Peter’s body heat.

“No, I-I have to do this,” Peter walked towards the table and fetched the glasses, ignoring the coarse shudders running through his hands. “Edith.”

“Hello, Peter.”

Her voice had a soothing effect on the young Avenger’s nerves, reminiscent of Karen but unique in her own structure. He saw how she scanned the area without prompting, reported that his surroundings were clear, and waited patiently for him to make up his mind. Quentin stood, slowly making his way towards the troubled teen. He too waited with bated breath for Peter’s next command, it’d only take a second, a blink of an eye, and then Stark’s technology would be his. All he had to do was wait.

“Edith, I want to transfer all control to Quentin Beck.” Peter hoped this time he wouldn’t hesitate.

“This order requires confirmation.”

Quentin’s veins thrummed with expectant energy, he tried not to look too eager as Peter communicated with the robotic voice. _Just confirm, Peter, make it easy for both of us._

“I—”

An awful buzzing noise began somewhere from Peter’s back pocket, it took him out the moment, breaking an invisible trance. Quentin could’ve bent a metal beam in half from the rage that overtook his mind. He hid it well, plastering a smile as he let the teen answer the phone.

“Hey, Pete, I know you said not to wait up, but it’s been like an hour and you haven’t answered any of my texts, are you okay?” Ned asked, his voice like an anchor in this sea Peter was in.

“Yeah, man, I told you not to worry,” the younger hero replied, rubbing his eyes.

“Have you been crying?” Ned asked, not one for subtleties or filters, “because I get it if you just wanted to be alone to cry, still don’t see why’d you’d get all fancy to have an appointment with your tears—WAIT, did you confess to M.J.? Did she reject you? Is THAT why you wouldn’t tell me where you were going?”

“Ned, Ned, calm down, I didn’t tell M.J. anything,” Peter said, feeling a sliver of irritation pass through his heart. He loved his friend, dearly, but social cues could be a foreign concept to him, especially when Peter was in the middle of something _important._

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, you should tell her before she falls in love with Brad,” Ned advised, “more than she already has, anyway.”

“Ned, not now,” Peter said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Sorry,” at least he sounded sincere, “I’ll leave you to it, just don’t wallow for too long, you know, Betty says that—”

“Bye, Ned.” Hanging up the phone might have been a tad bit rude, but Peter wasn’t in the mood to discuss secondhand psychology from his best friend’s girlfriend.

Quentin chuckled good-naturedly, “Young love,” he said, shaking his head.

“Yeah, damn, sorry, I need to hurry up, don’t I?” Peter said, rubbing his neck.

“Take your time,” the hero said, though there was a suggestion of sarcasm to them, almost as if the words pained him to say. But Peter was either too distracted or naïve to notice.

“Thank you for everything, Mr. Beck. With the Avengers mostly gone, I didn’t know how’d I’d do this by myself. I was afraid, I’m _still_ afraid,” Peter admitted, “Tony would probably say I’m being ridiculous.” It sounded self-deprecating, which is why it was the perfect opening.

“You speak as if you’re not part of the Avengers,” Quentin said, standing closer to Peter, using both his hands to angle him towards the mirror, “as if you’re not worthy to be among them.”

“But I’m not—”

“Shh,” the man hushed, looking at Peter’s eyes through the reflection. He was conflicted like he didn’t want to believe what Beck was implying. Quentin worked to rectify the teen's broken spirit, at least enough to gain his full trust. He rested his chin on the space between his neck and shoulder, letting his hands run down the length of the spiderling’s arms, infusing him with a confidence he desperately lacked. “You _are_ an Avenger, and you _are_ worthy. Tony wouldn’t have chosen you otherwise.”

Peter quivered under the intense stare, under the words that meant more to him than the air he was breathing. Yet, he wanted to argue, to insist that he was just your ‘Friendly Neighbourhood Spider-Man’, that he could never live up to Tony.

“But I’m not ready,” he said instead.

“And you never will be,” Quentin said, trying to go for realistic, “do you think any of us wakes up and thinks, ‘Yes, today is the day I’ll be perfect in every way.’” He didn’t let Peter answer. “Of course not, but you know what separates them, and us, from everyone else? We keep pushing to be better, to try harder, to get up when we’ve been knocked down.”

Peter was enthralled by Quentin’s speech, following his voice as it rumbled deep into his back and around his ears, how his hands had found their way to his hips and had settled there, like a puzzle piece. The world seemed to blur around them, and Peter felt lighter—like he was floating. He enjoyed the heat of the other man’s body, found that it warmed a part of him that craved the closeness of another human being.

“Wouldn’t you agree that’s what makes you an Avenger?” Peter didn’t realize a question had been asked, he’d been too busy trying to memorize the man’s scent, file it away for purposes he didn’t wish to dissect so late at night. “Peter?”

“Huh?” The teen sounded drunk.

“Wouldn’t you agree?” Quentin repeated, cocking his head, side-eyeing the spiderling. Well, this was unprecedented (but not unwelcome).

“Y-yeah, of course.” Peter had no idea what he was agreeing to, and he felt far too embarrassed to ask for clarification. He jumped when Quentin nuzzled him, ghosting his lips over the shell of his ear, letting his breath wash over his temple. Peter’s responding squeak was reminiscent of a mouse caught in a trap, panicked, urgent. He would’ve shifted from the embrace, but Quentin’s fingers tightened around his hips, compelling them to stay put.

“Would you like me to show you how we expressed gratitude on my Earth?” the other asked, letting his voice rumble into Peter’s ear, undisturbed by the air or distance.

“I-I think I should go,” Peter said, apologies tumbling from his lips before he could stop them as he extracted himself from Quentin’s hold. A flicker of anger passed through the hero’s blue eyes, making Spider-Man prepare himself for battle.

Quentin held up his arms in surrender, inhaling through his nose and exhaling through his mouth, repeating the exercise until he didn’t feel so unhinged. “Sorry, Peter, I didn’t mean to startle you. I just misunderstood your reaction is all.”

“My reaction?” Peter asked, looking down at himself and—oh my god! Peter blushed bright like a stop light, adjusting his slacks so they weren’t so tight. He didn’t know how to explain this one away, didn’t know if he should even attempt to breach the subject. The older man had to hide his grin behind his hand, thankful to be past the hormonal stages of his teen-hood.

“Don’t apologize,” Quentin warned before Peter could even open his mouth, “I get it, you’re young, I’ve been there. It probably felt nice to be touched, I get it, don’t worry about it.” He took a few steps away, giving the young hero his space. “We’re both adults, so we each have a responsibility to stop if we’re uncomfortable. What happens in this room, stays in this room, and I’m not gonna’ force you to do anything, so please don’t look so frightened.”

Peter’s heart kicked up a fuss in his chest, his arms stuck in place as adrenaline coursed through them. It was getting harder to focus on a singular object, his body hypersensitive to—unfortunately—more than just an immediate threat. Quentin’s scent was in his mouth, he could taste it on his tongue like syrup, thick and overpowering. He could hear the man’s heartbeat, how it’d quickened for a moment when he’d been offering himself, then again at Peter’s rejection. He wasn’t as unaffected as he led on.

But this wasn’t some stranger, he was _Mysterio_ , the man who’d helped him save the world! He shouldn’t be so on edge. So, with great concentration, he forced his arms to lower, to remain at his sides until the _real_ danger was near.

“You’re right…it did feel nice,” Peter whispered, hanging his head in shame.

Quentin’s brows met his hairline, he chanced getting closer to the teen, played with fire as he used a finger to lift his chin. Their eyes met, blue and brown, curious and confused. “Did Stark ever do these things to you?”

Peter’s reaction was instantaneous, a volcano erupting. He shoved Quentin away, sure the impact would leave a mark tomorrow as he burned with rage. “Don’t you dare slander his name,” the Avenger warned through his teeth.

“I didn’t mean it as an insult.” Though really, what else could he have been implying? Peter’s response was telling, though, and it made breaking the boy too much of a cakewalk. Where was the challenge if the blueprint was right there? “I do wonder if you would’ve refused his advances like you’re doing mine.”

Peter couldn’t contain the tears any longer, his vision blurring as he slumped to his knees, a sob escaping him as Tony’s last moments on Earth flitted through his lids. “You’re wrong,” Peter cried, doing a poor job at keeping the pain from his voice, “he was like a father to me and I never got to tell him h-how much.” The next sob hit him like a spear, his stomach twisting with anxiety and loss, anger and frustration. He’d thought he’d shed all the tears he had for Tony, but instead of getting easier, every day just got harder. He saw his image everywhere, and as his apprentice, he was now expected to pick up where he left off, but he couldn’t! He wasn’t Tony, NO ONE would be Tony.

The teen recoiled from the touch on his shoulder, but didn’t do much to resist the embrace, he felt Quentin press soft kisses to his scalp, confusing him further as to what role he was trying to occupy. “I’m sorry, again. I guess you can say I’ve grown cynical over these past few years. Losing everything will do that to you,” he admitted, his tone growing cold as he tried to console Peter.

“No one ever warns you about how bad it’s gonna’ be,” Peter lamented, feeling his limbs like weights by his sides. The fight was leaving him and all he wished to do now was sleep.

“Do you think that would help?”

“Maybe not, but at least I could prepare myself,” Peter grumbled, sitting up to look at Quentin who’d given a sarcastic chuckle as a rebuttal. He silenced him with a quick kiss, a barely-there press of the lips that was more a peck than anything. “I consent.”

Well then.

Quentin brought Peter into a proper kiss, letting him adjust to his mouth, kneading his lips with his own until they were pliant enough to open. He gave an experimental lick, swallowing the younger’s small whine. They were still a heap on the floor, a tangle of limbs and drying tears that should’ve looked more out of place than it did.

They separated, only to catch their breaths and for Quentin to ask, “Consent to what, exactly?”

“Everything,” Peter answered without reservation. There was a confirmatory ding from his glasses, but they both ignored it, resuming their kiss.

Quentin urged them to stand, his deft fingers undoing the many buttons of Peter’s shirt. He ran his palm through the muscles underneath, feeling them flex, strong and virile. He lifted the young man into his arms, letting him use his hips as an anchor for his legs. Peter gasped, quick to squeeze his arms around Quentin’s neck. Were they moving a bit too fast? It felt like they were, but Peter couldn’t find it in himself to stop. Or if he did, he ignored it.

“Ah!” Quentin drew a gasp from him by biting down into his neck, sucking hard enough to leave a bruise. They’d probably disappear in the morning, but in the meantime, he’d pepper every available surface with them.

The wind got knocked out of Peter when his back hit the bed, it took him a moment to reclaim it, gasping for it as he sat on his elbows and watched Quentin undo his own shirt. Peter’s eyes trailed downward with each newly exposed sliver of flesh, his mouth drying at the full picture. He’d never quarrelled much with his sexuality before this, partly because he was saving the world, and partly because he’d never found anyone from the same sex to pique his interest (except Thor, but then Thor wasn’t human, so it would be an unfair comparison). But here and now, with Quentin Beck--the hero they named Mysterio—standing over him with his chest exposed, doing quick work of his pants, Peter had much to reconsider.

Peter whined as he massaged himself through his slacks, pushing into the desperate rubbing, forgetting he could just take them off. Quentin took his wrists, sequestering over his head as he looked into his eyes. His free hand hovered over the fly of Peter’s pants, an intense look in his eyes.

“Do you trust me?” Quentin asked, a poignant moment in their relationship.

“Yes.” Unfortunately.

Quentin’s smirk was more than a bit triumphant, but he distracted any further investigation from Peter by taking one of his nipples and working it between his teeth as his hand undid the zipper and gripped him, earning a whimper from him. He worked the boy into a tizzy, alternating between sucking and biting on each nipple, then slow and fast strokes, bringing him to the brink, but not quite letting him jump.

“Please,” Peter begged, his face an alarming shade of red, “ _please_ ,” he sobbed, tense and ready climax with only a few more hearty strokes. Quentin let him go, almost cruel in how he did it. He trailed kisses downward, skipping the most obvious part as he removed the younger’s pants, watching his cock strain against his boxers and sit heavy on his stomach.

Peter kicked his legs out of his pants, struggling to get them off since his shoes were still on. It was an awkward and tender moment made even more endearing by the surprised sound of arousal the spiderling made at having the outline of his erection licked and prodded by an insistent tongue.

As far as first times went, Peter might have to call it here.

Quentin, tired of teasing them both, removed their final undergarments, taking a second to just _look_ at Peter Parker, debauched and stripped of everything except the glasses on his face. Quentin made quick work of that too, tossing them behind him, ignoring the crude _clink_ as they connected with the floor. If Tony Stark hadn’t invested in shatter-proof glass by now, that was his own fault.

Peter fought the urge to cover himself, feeling far too exposed for his own liking. This was the closest anyone has ever gotten to him, and the vulnerability—though putting him on edge—had a bit of excitement in it. He bit his lip, swallowing the moan threatening to escape.

“I take it you’ve never done this before,” Quentin guessed, reaching into the drawer and pulling out the complimentary lube and condoms—the perks of a penthouse. Peter shook his head, looking every bit as innocent as that gesture would imply. “Always use protection,” Quentin advised, contradicting himself as he tossed it over his shoulder.

Peter would’ve laughed or rolled his eyes, but the man’s slicked fingers were touching him in an intimate place, and he had to focus his strengths on keeping still and relaxed. He knew enough about how this worked and tensing would only make it more painful. Quentin watched Peter’s face for any signs of discomfort as he introduced his index finger into him. He tried to quell the burn with a kiss, fond as he caressed his face, guiding him through the worst of it.

“You’re doing great,” the hero encouraged adding a second finger, slowing down when Peter let out a pained sound, “you’re doing great,” he repeated, using his non-dominant hand to revive the spiderling’s wilting erection.

By the third finger, Quentin was using his mouth to soothe the ache, lavishing the younger’s cock with kisses and long strokes of his tongue, doing everything in his immediate power to make this part of their experience a bit more enjoyable. Besides, Peter was taking it like a champ, complaining only when the dull ache became a sharp one. After a few more moments, he was meeting Quentin halfway, a reassuring sign that he was ready for him.

“If at any moment you wanna’ stop,” Quentin began, coating himself with a surplus of lube, “you just say ‘stop’, and it’ll be over.” This was also another promise he would keep.

Peter nodded, too nervous to use his voice. He let his legs be manhandled and spread, feeling his heart relocate to his stomach as Quentin brought himself close and aligned himself. He forced comforting thoughts through his mind, clenching his fist at the first stretch. That by far was the worst part, and accommodating it would take some getting used to, but he was proud of his perseverance, his willingness to stick through it.

“Fuck,” Quentin all but growled, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from bucking wildly. He’d hate to incur the wrath of Spider-Man halfway inside of him. But _God_ was he tight, if Quentin weren’t in charge of seeing this through, he’d pass out from the pleasure alone. Sweat was pooling between them, the strain of keeping both relaxed and taut more of a workout than fighting a special effect—I mean, Elemental.

“I’m sorry,” Peter apologized, his voice pitched high. He’d been focusing on his breaths, but Quentin’s vulgar statement took him back to the present.

“No, please don’t apologize,” the other replied, looking almost upset with Peter. There were many other things he’d like to say, many other compliments he wished to whisper in his ear or bite into his skin, but as it were, he could only whisk grunts from his throat then a satisfied groan when inserted himself fully into the young man. “ _God_.” He said it like a prayer but meant it like a curse.

Peter wriggled beneath him, his body on fire from the stretch. It was such an odd and almost painful sensation to be filled this way. It wasn’t a common occurrence and he yet wasn’t sure if he’d do it again. He felt Quentin shiver against him and appreciated his restraint, knowing this was painful to him for different reasons.

“You okay?” the older man asked, rubbing a thumb around Peter’s lips, watching as his pink tongue flicked out to meet him. The teen nodded, spreading his legs a bit wider. “Would it be okay for me to start moving?”

Peter hesitated, but nodded, bracing himself for the sting. The first few thrusts were unpleasant, there was no getting around it, but it wasn’t unbearable. Quentin had spent much time preparing him, and it showed, as the slide eased with each iteration. Peter was gradually getting into it, pushing back with every other thrust, then every thrust, until he was insisting on more, faster, _harder_. Quentin could barely keep up, not knowing he’d have such a willing first-timer.

“Oh, _oh_ , _mmf,_ ” Peter moaned, fucking into that mounting sensation starting deep within his core. Quentin pinpointed it, watched as Peter unravelled beneath him, his limbs flailing, searching for purchase on anything. One of his hands found Quentin’s hair, and he tugged, unknowingly hard, causing the other to stutter in his stride. A growl escaped him, the pain/pleasure mixture driving him to inflict similar punishment on the young Avenger.

Peter didn’t seem to mind, taking the sudden brutal change in pace as a natural progression of their coupling. If anything, it only made the sensation in his core grow faster and stronger, pulling noises from him he didn’t know he could make. When Quentin wrapped a hand around him and timed each stroke with his thrusts, it was all Peter could do to keep his wits about him.

“Ah! _Mmm_ , Quen- _mmgh,_ Quentin, I’m _clooose_ ,” Peter sobbed, blindly kissing back the lips that met his own, disregarding how heavy his tongue felt in his mouth.

“Me too,” the other groaned, his muscles burning with the force of maintaining this speed. He adjusted their positions, pushing Peter’s thighs to his chest and focused on the strength of his thrusts, satisfied when the spiderling came, quick and unexpected, squeezing around him to the point where he feared it’d be _too_ tight. Quentin kept thrusting, seeking his own release and shocked into it even though he’d seen it coming.

They fell into each other, taking a moment to catch their respective breaths. Peter had tears flowing from his eyes as he searched for Quentin’s lips, the sentimental one, the hero noted. Of course, he obliged him, knowing it might be the last time they’d do something like this under the guise of being allies.

Peter shuddered against Quentin as he pulled out, squeezing himself shut to preserve some of the sensation. How was anything supposed to compare to that? Unknowingly (or maybe completely on purpose), Quentin had ruined him for anyone else. The older hero was the first to stand, stretching and vibrating with an energy he hadn’t felt in eons. He walked into the bathroom, making a point to ignore the glasses as he searched for some towels and wet cloths.

Quentin was taken aback by the image in the mirror, he almost didn’t recognize himself. He had large scratch marks across his neck and back, worse still down his spine. His lips were bruised and bloody from the light gash on the bottom left-hand corner. Jesus. If Peter were any less careful with his powers, he might have suffered a few broken bones.

Shaking his head, he returned to the bed to find the spiderling sleeping. He startled awake just as soon as Quentin touched him, but it’d been cute while it lasted. “Here,” Quentin said, handing him an extra-warm cloth, “to help you clean up.”

Peter looked abashed, his red cheeks glowing with a knowledge they didn’t have before. Even though his hickies were nearly gone, he could still feel them under his skin, how they’d been spread everywhere. His thighs were sore, and his limbs ached when he moved them, but that was nothing compared to his ass. He might be swinging funny for a few days.

Quentin helped him wipe away most of the damage, redressing him and readjusting his hair as best as he could. “There, good as new.” They shared a laugh, sweet if it hadn’t been mostly built on lies.

“I, uh, I guess these are yours now,” Peter said, bending low—with some difficulty—to pick up the glasses. “I trust you to use them better than I can.”

“Thank you, Peter.” At least he was being sincere here.

“And thanks for listening to me,” the young man continued, ducking his head, “and the other stuff.”

Quentin couldn’t help himself when he stole a kiss. And it was theft, they were no longer allies, his mission had changed the moment Peter had placed those glasses in his hands. It was just a shame he couldn’t let the kid know. Maybe that’s why there was a hint of desperation in the kiss, why he let it linger longer than it should—ripping the band-aid slowly instead of getting on with it.

Peter was breathless by the end, his eyes shiny for different reasons.

“Go, enjoy your vacation,” Quentin urged, ruffling Peter’s hair, “you don’t have to worry about this anymore.”

“Thank you!” Peter shoved his feet into his shoes, nearly tripping over his laces as he left, waving excitedly as he did.

Quentin put on the glasses, studying the world Stark had created and sneered. Half vitriol and appreciation coursing in his veins. Into the empty room, he looked, noting Peter’s absence with more acuity than he’d anticipated. He overlooked the slight hiccup, adjusting the lenses on his face and taking a deep breath.

“No, Peter, thank you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Aww, it's a bit bittersweet, ain't it?


End file.
